Warning Sign
by LionheartedMusings
Summary: Sherlock Holmes was a drug addicted genius detective, Eiddwen Gwynn was a smooth talking psychiatrist, and Mycroft Holmes unknowingly sent the rest of their lives into an unexpected path. The first part of our story shows us how Sherlock became the man who befriended John, and how a single person can change history as we know it. SHERLOCK/OC, slow burn.


**WARNING SIGN**  
**part i, focal point**

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_I'll use you as a warning sign_  
_That if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind_  
_And I'll use you as a focal point_  
_So I don't lose sight of what I want_

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_**i. Introductions, Button Noses and Pink**_

**September 19th, 2007, London**

Pink.

Clearly, he was capable of much finer deductions upon entering a room, but that was all Sherlock Holmes could see as he let the wooden door slam behind him: an abominable amount of soft pink— baby pink— everywhere. The walls, the cushions ( _newly purchased, expensive, placed strategically on the sofas as if someone had spent hours fluffing them the right way_ ), even the bloody carpet had fallen victim to the tidal wave ( _older than everything else in the room by a few years, 5- no, 6 years older than the rest of the furniture, extremely well kept, sentimental value to whomever purchased it_ ) of the seemingly 'calming' colour. He regretted his every decision already, and thin lips almost vanished as he pursed them tightly. **Mycroft**. He should have smothered his brother in his sleep when he'd had the chance.

And yet, despite how much he enjoyed driving his brother up the metaphorical wall, Sherlock had still shown up at the appointed time; annoyed, yes, but he was here. The ultimate truth was, the young detective was curious- curious enough to have hit a record of six days sober, curious enough to not pester Gordon Lestrade about whatever cases the Detective Inspector might have hidden away, curious enough to bother making his way into Central London and enter a little psychiatrist's office tucked away in a 6th floor.

He didn't need a therapist, he didn't need to sit on a chair and have some idiot ask him about his childhood and irritate him with trivial things like feelings, but he couldn't help but be intrigued. Who on earth had Mycroft Holmes, _the British Government if there ever was one_, trusted with his little brother's psyche? That idea, the mystery behind the carefully printed Dr. Gwynn on a white card, was the sole reason Sherlock had bothered showing up. Now, he was going to get to the bottom of this, and then he was going to leave and never come back. At least Mycroft couldn't say he hadn't given it a solid two minutes of trying.

Everyone would be pleased.

Without a word, the tall man kept walking straight past the receptionist's desk, taking a second to look back when the woman told him rather quickly that he couldn't just go in ( _late forties, dyed hair, acrylic nails, cares about her appearance, recently divorced going by the indentation on her ring finger, new on the job judging by the chore list she'd written down on a notepad that sat on the desk, two cats_—_ that one was easy enough to deduce, computer background; conclusion, **boring**_ ) before continuing his way forward, coat swishing behind him. "I have an appointment."

If the woman had expected anything else, she didn't get it. The door to the office slammed on her face as she rushed to stop the man, and she blinked- paused, then walked back to her station. Sherlock Holmes, 3pm. At least, Jane mused as she sat back down, he was punctual.

Inside, Sherlock stood in the empty office, having half expected to surprise whomever this Gwynn was; instead, he simply observed. There was a very clear absence of pink in the tiny space, replaced by wood and white and dark green accents— it was a carefully constructed space, he noted, designed not to be personal to whomever worked there. No items that couldn't be considered general decor, no objects that gave away who worked there; clean, uncluttered, borderline surgical when it came to the placement of books and decorative pieces. The only thing that caught his eye where the framed diplomas on the wall— medicine, psychiatry, psychology, sociology. Someone had been busy.

It turned out, Sherlock's analysis was cut short as that someone walked into the office; his attention shifted, turning on the spot to gaze at the closing door and the present company. Ah, definitely not what he'd been expecting. His intrigue didn't vanish as he took a good look at the woman.

Doctor Eiddwen Amelia Gwynn, the name he'd gotten from the diplomas, was the last thing he'd pictured her to be. Barely 5'1, shoulder length brown hair, cartoonish big hazel eyes and a button nose; young, possibly younger than him, which was something he hadn't accounted for. Interesting. Yellow shirt, black pencil skirt, minimal makeup, manicured nails with soft polish. Sherlock's brows furrowed as he looked at the Doctor, giving his head an infinitesimal shake- those were all observations, facts, but he couldn't seem to get anything else from them: nothing deeper than what his eyes could clearly see. One thing, though, he'd gathered so far, his brother might have found him the most intelligent therapist he'd been able to find. She couldn't be older than 24, but her academic journey was far too extensive for an average idiot to accomplish before they were well into their late twenties to early thirties.

He _still_ wasn't bored.** Damn it, Mycroft.**

"You know, if you're going to barge in here with a homicidal look on your face every time, Jane might just have a heart attack." Humorous tone, English accent with a clear Welsh undertone— moved to London at a young age— 12, keeps in frequent contact with family or friends, but hasn't gone back in a while. "Next time give the woman a reason to think we've not had the office hijacked by a madman."

"Who says there'll be a next time?" The man snapped, noting in irritation that his clipped, cold tone had had absolutely no effect on the petite woman's light smile. No, instead of inching away, Eiddwen moved past him to sit behind her desk, crossing her legs before she spoke away. "Take a seat Mr. Holmes."

He did, not bothering to remove his coat or scarf, instead studying the woman's face. "Is this when you ask me about my childhood?"

What Sherlock hadn't expected was the surge of discomfort he felt at the look on her face. He was analyzing her, but she was analyzing him right back— a glint to her eyes, the shadow of a smile still dancing on her lips. This must be what everyone else felt when he deduced them. He didn't like it.

"I could, but I don't think you'd bother playing along." Leaning back an inch on her chair, Eiddwen tilted her head, taking him in. Mycroft had told her his brother was… something else, and he certainly hadn't been lying. He was rude, completely unaware of societal normalcy, and absolutely opposed to authority. And that was just two minutes into their acquaintanceship. But he hadn't gotten up and left yet, so she spoke again, deciding that notes would be taken later, away from the detective's prying eyes. "Instead, I'll just ask you why you're here."

"My brother—"

"Your brother might have set up the appointment, but he didn't drag you in by your hair. So, again, why are you here, Mr. Holmes?"

His nostrils flared, annoyance at the interruption clear in his features, eyes squinting just barely. She wasn't wrong, Sherlock had to give her that much, but he didn't welcome the challenge. "Bored."

"There's plenty of things to do when you're bored, I personally wouldn't come into therapy just to kill some time."

"Maybe you just haven't been bored enough yet, Doctor." He was going to leave. That was it, it was decided in his analytical mind- he was going to get up and leave and plan his brother's untimely death. But he remained seated, gloved hands resting on his legs.

"Why are you here, Mr. Holmes?"

"I thought your job was to psychoanalyze me, not repeat yourself endlessly until I give you whatever answer you want to hear."

"I can do both." Amusement was clear in her eyes as Eiddwen leaned back forward, resting her arms on the desk, enjoying the response she was getting from the youngest Holmes. "Let me rephrase, then. Why does your brother want you here?"

"Maybe it's the sociopathy, maybe it's the cocaine," A sarcastic smile shot up into his face, mocking and clearly fake. "Maybe it's revenge for the time I stole his teddy bear. Who knows, when it comes to him?"

"Ah, the self-diagnosis. High-functioning sociopath, that's what your brother said you consider yourself."

She remained completely unfazed by his jabs and Sherlock wasn't sure what spoke higher— the irritation or the curiosity. Yet, he didn't move. "It's a correct diagnosis."

"It could be, but as far as I can tell I'll have to disagree, Mr. Holmes." Eiddwen spoke in a tone that served only to annoy Sherlock further— the word surgical came to mind again, like a scalpel performing a heart transplant, careful and calculated.

Eyes squinted just a traction of an inch further, the bubbling irritation urging him to let out a growl he managed to contain- instead, he spoke coolly. At least he thought it was coolly. "And why is that, Doctor Gwynn?"

"I need more data before telling you what's on my mind. Therapy when it comes to you, Mr. Holmes, doesn't work in your terms." The smile already on his lips spread as the woman leaned back once more, fingers tapping absentmindedly against her upper thigh. "Usually, it wouldn't be the case, but I fear you're not above trying to manipulate me for the sheer amusement of it, so bear with me."

"You're better than I expected."

"Oh, I'm the best."

"Modest."

"Honest, I'd say."

Then, nothing. Silence filled the room as they stared at each other— him trying to get something, anything, out of her and failing miserably, only making himself more annoyed at how little of an effect he'd had on the doctor; her just waiting for his next more, eyebrows slightly raised, a challenge. And he took it as one.

In a flash, Sherlock had gotten up from his seat, taken another solid look at Eiddwen and turned to leave; footsteps banging against the floor with gusto. He'd came, he'd seen, he hadn't exactly conquered. Damn his brother, and damn this woman.

The brunette, however, remained seated- watching him go with that infuriating smile still on her face; annoyingly feminine voice echoing behind him. "I'll see you next week, Mr. Holmes!"

"No, you won't." He growled back, leaving her office door wide open behind him and stomping his way to the exit.

Before he could get past the threshold, he heard her response and wondered if he'd ever met anyone more despicable in his 24 years in the world. This woman made Mycroft seem almost pleasant, and that was the highest form of insult in the detective's mind. "Yes, I will."

Then, the heavy front door slammed shut and once again, silence flooded the space.

In her office, Eiddwen got up, fighting the urge to do a little dance and instead practically floating across her office, hands gripping at the doorframe as she peeked her head out to look at Jane. The receptionist blinked, somewhat frozen at what had happened- again- and shuddered. "Didn't go well?"

"Oh, no," Eiddwen responded, taking a deep breath. "It went brilliantly. Send in Mrs. Turner when she arrives, Jane, I seem to be in a bit of a roll today."

And the door closed again.

Later, when the lights were out and the doors locked, the green notebook on Doctor Gwynn's desk sat open, black-ink scribbles dancing on the page under the initials S and H.

_Too clever for his own good. Thrill seeker needs an element of intrigue to get by. Extremely difficult in the face of authority. Possible sociopathy, details too muddy to make an assessment, but regardless of the accuracy of the diagnosis_—_ something made him this way. **CHALLENGE**._

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**A/N:** Hello, everyone! Welcome to the world that's absolutely taken over my every waking minute! First things first, if you've made it this far, THANK YOU for taking the time to read what I hope will be the beginning of a beautiful saga of love and life. WARNING SIGN is based off a little spark that clicked in my head after watching a random video on YouTube and I couldn't not write it. The link to the video is up on my profile, if you want to check it out.

A couple of notes: 1) Eiddwen is in no way, shape or form smarter than Sherlock. She's very intelligent, yes, as we'll come to find out BUT her brain is wired completely differently than the Holmes'. No deductions from this one. She does know how to play him, but that's half wit, half training and a pinch of luck. 2) Eiddwen is directly modeled after Jenna Coleman, physically, but feel free to imagine her whatever way you want to! 3) This is just the beginning, we'll learn more about our new favourite psychiatrist as we go along.

Now, this is the beginning of part one of the story, which focuses on Sherlock's life before he met John, told through his appointments with Eiddwen (pronounced Aith-wen) from September 2007 to January 2010. It does sound like a lot of time, but I promise it'll go by quickly enough— all the while allowing me to set the scene for what I can only hope will be a great take on season one of Sherlock. This part, **FOCAL POINT**, is going to be around 20 chapters long, and then we move onto the new one (already titled, but I'm keeping it a secret for now).

Drop your comments and your reviews, I really would like to know if this silly little idea is worth continuing. It's been years since I've shared my writing, so feedback would be much appreciated. Lots of love!


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